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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790850">One Night in Paris</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/pseuds/lady_needless_litany'>lady_needless_litany</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Queen's Gambit (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Beth Harmon, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, No Beta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:21:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/pseuds/lady_needless_litany</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth hates losing. But, if it's possible, she hates uncertainty even more.</p>
<p>(An AU where Beth and Cleo had sex on the night before her game with Borgov in Paris.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cleo/Beth Harmon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>One Night in Paris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yes, the title is a reference to the musical <i>Chess</i>. Because I think I'm funny. (I'm not.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Beth gets back to her room, Cleo is gone. She stumbles through the door and the suite is immaculate: the bed sheets are pressed and cold, and the body that had warmed them is gone. The tidiness is a sharp contrast to her rumpled clothes, her aching brain, the crusted tracks of tears and eyeliner on her cheeks. There is no trace of the previous evening's havoc, except for herself.</p>
<p>There is, however, a note. It's resting on the table, ever so proper, with crisp corners and elegant script. She grasps it, lifts it, unfolds it. The front simply says <em>Beth</em>; the inside yields a string of digits and a signature. It's an invitation, one that she's not sure she wants to accept; there's part of her that's angry — no, enraged — and blames Cleo for everything.</p>
<p><em>You would have lost anyway, </em>her mind whispers, treacherous. <em>It's Borgov.</em></p>
<p><em>Yes,</em> another part of her mind responds.<em> But this way, Borgov didn't win. You lost.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>What does it matter?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You should've known better.</em>
</p>
<p>The drinks, she regrets. She can’t say she’s sorry for what came after — and why should she? She just wishes that she could remember more of it. She remembers Cleo's lips, soft and demanding, against herself as they fell through the door. She remembers them undressing each other, careful not to damage clothes that are far too expensive for their own good. She remembers her head between Cleo’s legs. She remembers bone-deep satisfaction and sinking into sleep. But that’s all she has: flashes.</p>
<p>It had been just as good as with Benny — maybe better, in some ways. Different, but just as good. It isn’t that she’s never thought about women like that before, just that she’s never had the chance to pursue it.</p>
<p>All of that, though, doesn’t help her decide whether or not to call Cleo. The other woman must not have taken kindly to waking up to an empty room; otherwise, Beth imagines, she would still be here, perhaps lounging on the sofa in a hotel robe. Perhaps they'd fuck again. Beth thinks that she would have liked that. Except Cleo isn't here.</p>
<p>To call or not to call?</p>
<p>In the end, it’s not a decision. It’s an instinct.</p>
<p>The receiver is in her hand and the number is dialled before she has the chance to change her mind. With bated breath, she waits. Would it be worse if Cleo answers or if she doesn’t?</p>
<p>"Allô?"</p>
<p>"Cleo? It's Beth."</p>
<p>"Ah, hello." There's an odd noise that Beth can't quite work out — she thinks it might be Cleo taking a drag of a cigarette. "How was the match?"</p>
<p>"I lost."</p>
<p>Cleo's silence speaks volumes; her loss, at least in Cleo's eyes, had been a foregone conclusion. Perhaps that shouldn't be surprising, given the night they'd had, but it still stings.</p>
<p>"Anyway," Beth says, just to change the subject. "Can I see you again before I leave?"</p>
<p>Cleo sighs, resolute but not unkind. "No."</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"Because I will not be another one of your obsessions. The drink, the drugs, the chess. This Townes. I will not be added to that list."</p>
<p>Usually, she'd fly into a rage at words like that. Because, deep down, Beth knows that she would say the same, if their positions were reversed.</p>
<p>"I-" she pauses; it's impossible to know what to say. "We're still friends, right?"</p>
<p>Beth hates the way her voice wavers, almost breaks, on the question.</p>
<p>It feels odd to say 'friend', when their bodies had been entwined, warm and desirous, not twenty-four hours ago.</p>
<p>There's a soft laugh at the end of the line. "Yes, we're still friends."</p>
<p>She searches for a response. "Good," she manages.</p>
<p>"I must go," Cleo tells her. "I am catching a train to Vienna."</p>
<p>"Okay. I hope — I hope you enjoy your trip." Beth releases a breath, brings her hand to her forehead in an attempt to steady herself. "And Cleo? I'm sorry. I'm a mess."</p>
<p>"If anything, it's me who should be apologising."</p>
<p>Before she can finish the sentence, Beth's shaking her head. "It's not your job to take care of me. I should've known better."</p>
<p>"No, I mean-" Cleo cuts herself off. "Well, Beth, goodbye. I'll see you in New York some time. Or maybe even Kentucky."</p>
<p>There's something unfinished, Beth feels, something left unsaid. But she has no intention of pursuing it — she hasn't the energy or the focus — so she just murmurs her own goodbye and replaces the phone with a gentle click. She crosses to the bed, which, strangely, feels so much more lonely now. Strangely, because she's never felt loneliness in that way before. Nearly collapsing on to the pillows, she squeezes her eyes shut and ignores the feeling as best she can, ignores the <em>ifs, buts </em>and <em>maybes</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is Cleo working for the KGB? Who knows.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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